


Free

by mistr3ssquickly



Series: Redemption [9]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, M/M, Multi, No one said parenting would be easy, Please Send Help, This is starting to turn into a character study, Vader really wants to be a good dad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-06-05 11:36:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6703126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistr3ssquickly/pseuds/mistr3ssquickly





	1. Luke

**Author's Note:**

  * For [culturevulture73](https://archiveofourown.org/users/culturevulture73/gifts).



When Luke was seven, a Rancor broke free from its handler and destroyed half of the western quadrant of the Lars family farm before Uncle Owen and Huff Darklighter managed to take it down, their rifles empty and Uncle Owen’s left leg broken, both of them dusty and sweaty and _laughing_ when they came back to the Lars homestead, despite the fact that Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru were usually quiet and cold around Huff like they got whenever Luke had done something bad and was in for a scolding. That night was different, Huff sitting in the main courtyard at Uncle Owen’s side, drinking ethanol distillate and talking about things Luke didn’t care about, affection floating between them like Luke felt around Biggs whenever Biggs wasn’t being a big dumb bully about something.

At twenty-five, Luke settles into a meditative pose at his father’s side and sips at the mug of cool water he poured for himself, reflecting back on his father’s evening with Huff as he drinks, a quiet chuckle rippling from his throat at the irony of it, the parallel it established for his own adult life.

“What amuses you, my son?” his father rumbles beside him, considerably less intimidating in the tan-and-linen garb he’s taken to wearing over their long months working together on Tatooine, the mask covering his face organic enough in its features that it earns him curious stares more often than looks of fear or disgust.

Luke shakes his head. “A memory,” he says. “It’s not important.”

He can feel his father reaching for more information and resists it out of habit, lowering his mental shields with calm intent when it occurs to him that there’s nothing wrong with letting his father see the memory of Uncle Owen laughing and pulling Aunt Beru down to kiss her on the cheek, pulling Luke up onto his good leg and kissing him on the temple, the rare show of affection something Luke carries in his heart like a treasure, a grounding touchstone that he’s used more times than he can count to help him balance his mind, to put the lure of the Dark Side into perspective, weighed equally with the Light. His father’s breathing doesn’t change as he slips into Luke’s memories, but Luke can feel Anakin’s curiosity brushing across his mind. A relatively new development in their relationship, humanizing and vulnerable in a way Anakin refused to be at first and resists being even now, his closed-off, almost robotic behavior suffocating and painful whenever he’s around anyone but Luke. Memory helps, offering Anakin a connection with Luke that manifests like pale light in the depths of a starship: a reference slipped into conversation here, acknowledgement of Luke’s skills and abilities worked into attack plans there. Almost always wrapped in the familiarity of battle and defense, Anakin’s comfort-zone, but there nonetheless, a gift Luke accepts without question or too much thought, his long years of meditation serving him well in that regard.

“My brother cared for you well,” Anakin says, after a moment, pressure moving like the fretful waves of the Corellian Sea across Luke’s mind. “I am grateful to him for it.”

Regret tinges his words, heavy in Luke’s mind as Anakin passes over the memory of sand shifting across charred remains, of heart-wrenching sobs choking Luke’s throat as he wrapped in a thick blanket the remains of the only family he’d ever known, burying them deep in the sandstone keeps below the homestead, the cold darkness making him shiver as he sat with his aunt and uncle one last time, devastated by the depth of loss he’d not known could be possible.

Luke pulls at his mental shields, wanting to seal the memory from his conscious mind, and his father takes the hint, leaving it alone. “I loved them,” Luke tells him, simply. “My aunt and uncle.”

“And it has made you strong,” his father says.

They sit in companionable silence for a time, watching the band of sun slipping around the space where the door of their latest hideout doesn’t quite seal inch slowly across the sandstone floor, the worst heat of the day pressing insistently at the walls surrounding them, protecting them. Luke finishes his water and sets the mug aside, closing his eyes as he slips into meditation, reviewing the final battle hard-won and the negotiations now to follow, the role he is expected to play, standing at his sister’s side. He reaches for her as he meditates, feels her waiting in Mos Eisley as she’s supposed to do, Han at her side, bored but calm, ready to play the part of bodyguard, if needed, when the delegation from the New Republic arrives. Feels Leia reaching back for him, her mental caress as gentle and loving as her palm against his cheek, her lips pressed to his in a sweet, loving kiss.

Beside him, his father shifts.

“Your feelings for your sister disturb me, my son,” he says, and where Luke doesn’t physically rip anything, yanking his mental shields up as fast as he _possibly_ can, he _does_ give himself an impressive headache in his haste, the urge powerful to slam his face into his palm -- the _metal_ one -- at the realization that he’s let his father stay in his head too long.

Luke draws himself up, straightening his spine, the line of his neck. A trick Leia taught him for centering and composure, her own favored method for controlling her temper during negotiations. “It’s complicated, between us,” he hears himself say.

“She is your sister,” Anakin says.

Luke doesn’t look at him. “We didn’t know that,” he says, “for a few years. Almost four.”

“Obi-Wan did not tell you?”

“No. Nor did Yoda.”

Anakin makes a sound in his throat that, despite the distortion from his electrolarynx, is clearly intended to be a growl. “Fools, both of them,” he says.

Luke doesn’t disagree. “After we began training, the similarities between us became clear,” he says. “Before that, I thought I was an only child. And I never would have thought Leia was related to me, even if I’d known I had a sister somewhere. Especially not a twin. We look nothing alike.”

Anakin nods. “Leia looks much like her mother,” he says, thoughtfully, “and you, much like my sire.”

“Your sire?” Luke echoes. “I thought --”

“You have been told that I was conceived through the Force,” Anakin says. A statement, not a question. Luke nods. “As was the common practice, in my mother’s time,” his father says. “Intercourse between a slave and her owner was not acknowledged, and any impregnation that resulted would be labeled spontaneous, with no father identified.”

Luke breathes in a slow breath, tasting the dust of Tatooine on the back of his tongue, and reaches up to brush his hair from his eyes, a nervous habit Han’s always fussing at him to quash, usually while laughing at him. _Broadcastin’ your insecurities’ll lose you money at cards and worse elsewhere,_ he’d said, swatting at Luke’s hand. _‘Sides, isn’t fair for you to hog that pretty blonde head of yours. Let somebody else play with it. Like me. I’ll volunteer._

The thought that his coloring -- which Han’s always liked and Leia has claimed jealousy of, his blonde hair brighter and fluffier than that of men like Crix Madine and Tycho Celchu, men he’s admired and followed and learnt to trust -- came from a _slaver,_ a man who raped his father’s mother, leaving her to endure the long months of pregnancy and agony of childbirth _alone_ and in the squalor of a slave settlement --

He closes his eyes and focuses his mind on the memory of landing in the center of the biggest slave-trade settlements on Tatooine, days away from his family’s homestead, the extravagant wealth of the slave-lords’ palaces enough to make bile rise in his throat. He reaches for the memory of the Light, of justice dealt rather than violence, the slavers rounded up and processed, imprisoned but clothed and fed and shielded from the sun, rescue offered to those they had captured, care for the injured and return for the stolen, his father at his side, powerful and inescapable as they spread their efforts east, then north, then into the west, the final Hutt falling in an act of suicidal cowardice rather than facing judgement and imprisonment for the crimes committed at his orders.

“Never again,” he says aloud, opening his eyes.

“Never again,” his father echoes. “Tatooine is free.”

\---

Luke is hungry by the time Leia and Han arrive with the delegates from the New Republic, his tailbone sore from the hours he’s sat alone, meditating, his father secreted away below the main floor of their hideout. He stands when he hears the rumble of engines approaching, opening the door to welcome two Twi’leks, a Rodian, a Corellian, and a Mon Calamari all dressed in robes too thick for the heat of Tatooine, the Mon Cal looking especially miserable, trembling a little as Luke welcomes them in and invite them to sit. He introduces himself, an unnecessary gesture that Leia insisted would be polite, and thanks them for coming. Gives them an overview of the campaign to rid Tatooine of slave-trade, the numbers and graphs and statistics he presents to them peppered through with holos of the captured, faces to associate with the suffering, with the need for New Republic support to keep the peace so very hard-won.

“As a son of this world and the grandson of the enslaved, I come to you humble and earnest in my request for your consideration and protection,” he says, the words practiced on his tongue and projected from his sister, as if she thinks he’ll forget or stutter or go off-script, her concern for the success of their meeting endearingly annoying, very much the actions of the older sibling she often claims to be. “I would also offer that this will be a positive political move for the New Republic; an act of caring extended to an Outer Rim world with no known resources or political clout, showing that the New Republic cares for those far flung from its governing center from whom they stand to gain no significant gain, but whom they will protect out of respect for the equality among all sentient lifeforms.”

“Well-spoken, Commander,” the Twi’lek with stars indicating the rank of general pinned to his jacket says when Luke sits. “And our congratulations on a campaign well-conceived and conducted.”

Luke dips his head in a side-slant nod of acknowledgement. “Thank you, sir.”

“However, there are concerns surrounding the specifics of your victory,” the general continues. “You and your companions who greeted us at the port are known to the Republic, but rumors of another, one who uses the Force as you do and fights at your side, have reached us in our investigations of your activities, but have remained conspicuously absent in your communications and in your presentation this afternoon. We would hear your thoughts on this rumor and, if it is true, speak with your companion.”

Behind him, Luke can feel Han tense. He smiles.

“Those sensitive to the Force are understandably reticent to show themselves openly, as I’m sure you can understand,” Leia says, stepping forward before Luke can open his mouth to reply. “You are correct that we have enjoyed the support of another Jedi, but we would secure your promise of discretion before we make any introductions. Despite the stories of the Emperor’s passing, fear of his wish to eradicate the Jedi and the support he enjoyed from those who shared his desires are very real concerns.”

“Commander Skywalker has shown none of those concerns,” the Mon Cal intones, “and his planet is slowly suffocating me. If we could speed up the proceedings, I would be most grateful.”

“Luke ain’t like the other Jedi,” Han says, “and this planet’s bad for everybody. Sooner you say yes to lookin’ after it, the sooner you can get off it.”

Leia sighs. “General Solo --” she says, her tone so weary and imploring that Luke has to bite the inside of his cheek not to laugh.

“Yeah, yeah,” Han grumbles. He pushes himself away from the wall and comes over to Luke’s side, slinging a casual arm around Luke’s shoulders. “Look. I’ve known Luke since the first time he heard about the Force, back when he was just a brat from Tatooine, not a Jedi. He’s a natural with it, kinda irritating because of it, but he’s got a good head on his shoulders and way more power than anybody in this room wants to admit he’s got. He cleared our guy, told us we could trust him, and he was right. If you want to doubt the last Jedi, the last royal of Alderaan, and me, then go ahead, but you should know that you’re makin’ yourselves look blind and bureaucratic if you do.”

Luke eases out from under the weight of Han’s arm, drawing up as much patience as he can around himself like a shield, Leia tense beside him, clearly readying herself to clean up Han’s mess, but the delegation takes his words in stride, one of the Rodians openly laughing, the Corellian shaking his head with a grin on his face.

“I’m glad to see you’re representing our people well,” the Corellian says.

Han shrugs. “I just call ‘em like I see ‘em,” he says.

“You have our promise of discretion,” the Mon Cal says. “Unless my companions feel otherwise?”

The others shake their heads, all of them controlling their earlier mirth except for the Corellian, who only half-manages to wipe the grin from his mouth. He manages without trouble when Luke closes his eyes and bids his father to join them, concentrating on reaching out to each delegate’s mind as his father approaches, feeling for suspicion and recognition as they see Anakin for the first time, his sister’s presence warm at the back of his mind, monitoring him. A safeguard more precious to him than the air he breathes.

The delegation leaves with a promise of answers by the end of the Standard Week, no questions asked. Luke sinks into his chair as they go, his father’s bionic hand heavy on his shoulder, no words passing between them as the sound of engines fades into the distance.

\---

The suns have long set behind the horizon when Luke rejoins Han and Leia on the outskirts of the nearest town, his father safely tucked away in his ship, the complex and varied systems keeping him alive running their self-check routines, the oxygen filters allowing him to breathe without his ventilator as he rests. Luke greets his sister with a kiss that lasts longer than he’d intended it to, the warmth of her breath against his cheek and the brush of her tongue against his lower lip igniting a hunger in him that has nothing to do with his empty stomach, his cock stirring in his trousers as she slides her arms around his neck and presses her body close to his, sighing softly when he whimpers quietly into her mouth.

“You did so well today,” she murmurs to him when he pulls away to kiss her on the nose, a gesture he _knows_ she hates, thinks it condescending. “We’ll make a diplomat of you, yet.”

Luke snorts softly and steals a kiss. “I don’t think so,” he says. “It’s exhausting, being that polite.” He kisses her again on the nose, on the lips. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“Do what?” Han wants to know, sauntering into the room. “Anything I could get in on?”

Leia laughs. “No. You’re not invited. Now or ever.”

“Now just a min --”

“We were talking about diplomacy, Han,” Luke says, laughing. “Calm down.”

Han waves it away like the notion of being diplomatic is little more than a fly buzzing around his face. “Waste of breath bein’ diplomatic,” he says. _“I_ thought you were talkin’ about --”

“-- we can guess, thank you,” Leia says, leaning against Luke’s chest with a look of disapproval Luke can feel without seeing her face, remnants of the prim, proper diplomat he saw earlier in the day clinging to her like dust in her hair. “And I _told_ you, none of that tonight. Luke’s dead on his feet.”

She isn’t wrong, but Luke wishes she were, the tensions of the past month that culminated into the high-wire act of the afternoon wound like a spring barely contained, tight in his stomach, his chest. He trails his fingertips down the curve of her back as she pulls away from him to cross the room, Han distracting him from watching her go by getting right into his personal space with a murmur of _where’s my welcome-home kiss,_ as rough and possessive as ever as Luke pulls him close and kisses him, the flavor of brandy rich in his mouth conspiring with Luke’s empty stomach and the warming burn of arousal building in his chest, making the room spin.

“That’s better,” Han says when the sound of Leia clearing her throat makes Luke pull away from the kiss, flushing like he’s gotten caught doing something he knows he’s not supposed to do.

“What?”

Han shakes his head. “Nothing.”

They share a meal of tinned rations in relative silence, the strain of the day plain on Leia’s face, in Han’s slouching posture. Luke swallows a yawn as he clears the table, his eyes burning a little as he steps into the ‘fresher and strips out of his clothes, the temptation to skip bathing and slink into bed tempered only by the dust he can feel covering his skin, dried in a sticky paste of old sweat, the familiar end-of-day crust he’d forgotten over the years he spent off-planet with Han and Leia, oddly foreign upon his infrequent returns to his homeworld. He bathes without thought and collapses into bed without acknowledging Han, already in the bed when he comes in, the cool sheets a blessing against his skin, the sagging mattress beneath impossibly comfortable. He doesn’t move when Han curls around him, kissing him on the ear and neck and shoulder, sleep claiming him before Leia’s finished with her shower and joined them in bed.

He’s got his arm draped across her when he wakes the following morning, her body spread out in a luxurious stretch, as always taking up more of the bed than he’d’ve thought someone her size possibly could. She wrinkles her nose and makes an unhappy noise when he shifts beside her, leaning close to kiss her on the neck. Gives him a blearily disapproving look when she opens her eyes and sees him looking down at her, her sigh long-suffering when he presses a kiss to her mouth. She pushes him away and stretches again, her mood considerably improved when she relaxes with a satisfied sigh, her eyes fluttering closed as Luke reaches out to brush a lock of hair escaped from her braid away from her cheek, rolling closer to her, their bodies pressed flush.

“You look like you’ve slept well,” she says, slipping her hand across the curve of his ribs to stroke down the length of his back.

“I did,” he says.

“Mmm. I’m glad.”

The finest threads of guilt tug at him as he leans in to kiss her again, sleep falling away enough for him to notice the grey of early morning warming already into the light of the first sun rising, the standard practices of the Jedi he’s found in texts over years of searching compelling him to meditate upon first waking, to discipline his mind and body, to seek connection with the Force, and to feel connection with the world around him through the Force as a result. But when he reaches for Leia and feels the glow of her, open and receptive to him, her soul twining with his with little thought or effort, he finds it oddly unsatisfying, distant. Nothing to compare with the shift of her muscles under his hand as he pulls her to him, warm and soft against his body, the texture of her skin, smoother still than his or Han’s but rougher than it was when she was younger, her body marked across with the scars of the battles she’s fought, the injuries she’s survived. Suffering he’s failed to protect her from, time and again.

Against the curve of his throat, Leia laughs. “You’re thinking so loudly it’s a wonder you’ve not woken Han,” she says quietly. “What’s troubling you?”

Luke shakes his head. “It’s nothing,” he says.

Beneath him, Leia narrows her eyes, the pressure at the back of Luke’s mind telling him plainly enough that she doesn’t believe him and isn’t interested in pulling the truth from him in words. He closes his eyes and lets her in, pulling the memory of his conversation with their father the day before to the fore of his thoughts as she sifts through his usual worries and reservations and doubts, her body going tense as it always does whenever Anakin is involved, her lingering distrust of him as bright as sunlight to Luke’s senses. She sighs and shakes her head, as she recedes from his mind, reaching up to run her fingers through Luke’s hair, making it fluff, their father’s disapproval a shared memory, now, and a lighter burden for it.

“I love you,” she says, simply, when he opens his eyes.

“And I, you.”

She’s hesitant to return his kiss when he leans down to cover her mouth with his own, though, frowning a little when he pulls away. She blocks him when he reaches for her, curious, reaches up to tap him on the nose for the attempted intrusion.

“I was just thinking,” she says, “that it matters, to you. His opinion of you. Of us. This.”

Her tone is soft, not accusatory, but guilt flickers in Luke’s belly all the same. “I’d not wanted him to know,” he says.

“But it bothers, you, now that he does.”

“No,” Luke says. Then, when Leia quirks an eyebrow at him: “Yes. I don’t know. I didn’t want him to know. It feels ... _invasive._ That he knows.”

Leia sighs. “Luke --”

“Y’know what else is invasive?” Han interrupts her, his voice rough with sleep and the bed shaking as he rolls over, nudging Luke’s thigh with his knee. “Your old man gettin’ in my head, looking through all the stuff we’d done together before Bespin. Usin’ what he found to lure you to him. _That_ was invasive, and did a helluva lot more damage than what we’re doin’, the three of us.”

“Eloquently put as always,” Leia sighs, shifting a little under Luke’s weight, her gentle annoyance with Han warm like the sun.

“Call ‘em like I see ‘em,” Han reminds her, yawning. “Your old man did some pretty terrible things. _I_ think he should just be grateful the Luke was willing to give him another shot. Should be grateful we went along with it, too, considering.” He reaches out to slide his hand down Luke’s side, curling his fingers possessively over Luke’s hip. “Don’t see how it’s his business, anyway, what we get up to. Ain’t like you’re underage or forcing anyone or anything.”

Luke leans back, turning his head enough to steal a kiss, Han’s lips warm and slow under his, dulled still with lingering sleep. “It isn’t,” he mumbles against Han’s mouth.

Han grins, his hand dropping down to grope where Luke’s half-hard. “Yeah?” he says. “Prove it.”

\---

It’s later in the day than Luke had intended when he leaves to rendezvous with his father, the suns high enough that he’s sweaty and a little dizzy when he reaches Anakin’s ship, the artificial cool inside prickling at his skin as he pulls off his protective gear, scratching absently at a band of skin near his wrist that was exposed for part of the journey and is likely sunburnt as a result. His father welcomes him with a cup of cool water and a glance at Luke’s wrist, concern heavy in his tone as he speaks.

“Is everything all right?” he says, watching Luke drink. “You were delayed this morning.”

Luke nods. “Yes, everything’s fine. I’m sorry I’m late.”

He feels his father reaching, curious, and pulls up his mental shields, but Anakin is persistent, moreso than usual. “What are you hiding, my son?” he says.

“Nothing, Father.”

“Do not lie to me,” Anakin says. “If there has been a complication, if there is trouble --”

And there’s genuine concern in his voice, _fear_ that Luke can feel even without concentrating, his father’s thoughts scattered and littered with stale worry gathered during the hours he waited for Luke to arrive, imagined possibilities of an underground resistance not yet subdued, assassins sent as a final act of vengeance. A message from the Republic, revoking the promise of support and protection. The devastating consequences of Luke’s Republic contacts learning the true identity of Luke’s Jedi companion. Threats of violence against the whole of Tatooine for harboring the monster that once was Darth Vader, damning his children and his homeworld because of him, because of his presence with them.

Luke sets his water-mug aside. “You’re overthinking things, Father,” he says. “I slept in, is all. I’m sorry. I should have let you know I would be delayed.”

Anakin considers him in silence for a very long moment, shades of the intimidating figure he once prided himself on being sending a shiver down Luke’s spine. “You are certain?” he says.

Luke sighs. “I am,” he says, and lets his shields fall away.

His father is hesitant, at first, his consciousness barely brushing against Luke’s, awkward as he senses how much Luke does _not_ want to share memory of his morning. Luke endures, closing his eyes and steadying his breathing, tricks Yoda showed him for enduring the physical agony of training on Dagobah, his heart-rate slowing to its resting rate, even as his father persists, finding without difficulty the memory of Han’s kisses and Leia’s touches, the feel of Han deep inside him and Leia warm against his mouth, their joined pleasure blurring under the brightness of Luke’s own orgasm as he shook and cried out between them, splattering Leia’s belly and thighs as Han bit him on the shoulder, marking him. The tired, sated aftermath, lazy kisses shared as they left the sanctuary of their shared bed, close in the distance that formed as they cleaned and dressed and went their separate ways.

“Your sister,” Anakin says as he recedes, Luke opening his eyes to consider him, “and that _smuggler?”_

“Yes,” he says.

 _“Both_ of them?”

Luke draws a steadying breath. “Father, you _tortured_ them,” he says. _“Both_ of them.”

“Yes. But --” Anakin cocks his head to the side. “I do not see the connection.”

“I am _not_ having this discussion,” Luke says.

“My son, I do not --”

“Father, _please.”_

“I do not mind,” Anakin says, his voice louder than Luke’s, bringing to the fore of Luke’s thoughts a memory of trying to out-shout his uncle during the celebration of the new solar year when Luke was little, his young voice so dwarfed by his uncle’s booming baritone that he’d shouted himself hoarse, just for the delight of his uncle’s responses. “It is, as you have said, invasive of me to ask. I apologize; I will not ask again.”

Luke dips his head in a nod. “Thank you,” he says.

Anakin is quiet for a moment. Then, crossing his arms over his chest, he says: “I would be honored to share some of my knowledge of selective shielding as well, if you are interested. It seems a skill you might like to have.”

Luke feels his entire face go red. “Thank you, Father,” he says, pushing aside the temptation to step outside the ship and bury himself in the sand, away from the burn of embarrassment winding its way through him like a fever. “I would appreciate that very much.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Warning: Sick person rambling incoming:

I wrote this on a trio of sick-days while drowning in my own nasal fluids and coughing up at least three lungs, nevermind that I was _pretty sure_ I only had two to begin with. Also, there’s something hilarious about writing smut in bed with a veritable mountain of tissues beside me, nevermind that I’m a woman and don’t _need_ tissues when I get myself off and that all of those tissues were used to slowly sandpaper my _goddamn nose off my goddamn face_ because sweet son of a _Sith_ (technically, that’s Luke) I’m a whiny bastard when I have a headcold. Broken bones? Stitches? Burns? The monthly agony of being a woman with a functioning uterus? Bring it on, I’m tough as nails. Fever, cough, sore throat, runny nose? Gods, my partner was glad to escape the house and go to work, just to escape my whimpering. True story. We’re all just lucky that I get colds every like ... two years. Max.

Also-also, Luke kinda turned into Daenerys Targaryen at one point in this story, but I figure that works, he’s little and blonde and -- admit it -- he’d look badass riding a dragon. #sickmusings

Finally, this is all for my dear CultureVulture73 who, upon hearing my idea for this story (which I got while writing [this story](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6644461), if you’re curious) jumped on board so hard the whole boat tipped. They had a _hilarious_ dialogue suggestion which I gave up on including _no fewer than 6 times_ before I finally, _finally_ got it to play nice and fit. This story took three damn days to write because of that snippet of dialogue, but it was just _priceless,_ I couldn’t NOT include it. Much love to you, dear, and what you do to my creative brain.

(And P.S. I couldn’t get the sex scene to fill out naturally so I’ll write it later and include it as an omake because HOLY SHIT y’all should see what I’m seeing, OT3 vs. panties, it’s a KO.)


	2. Anakin

Luke is late.

He isn’t, usually. Hasn’t been _ever,_ actually. Early, a few times, usually when he’s had a fight with his sister or that smuggler he seems to like despite the man’s maddeningly stubborn mind and tendency to smirk all the time, the lingering frustrations Anakin can sense coming off his son on those days like the early morning heat reduced as they are only by the speed at which Luke raced across the dunes to his ship, a demonstration of recklessness to which Anakin would object if he didn’t recall as clearly as he does using the same tactic to bleed out his own frustrations when he was Luke’s age, and younger.

He sits in his ship and reaches for Luke through the Force but there is no sign of him, his son’s skills in fully shielding his presence as powerful as ever, as effective, and Anakin would be proud of him if he weren’t so concerned, the emotion forcing tension through his chest, tightness gathering among muscles long rendered useless in the presence of the ventilator doing their work for them. A pointless waste of energy, then, for his physical body to be reacting to the thoughts encroaching like smoke around the corners of his mind, but he can’t blame the expenditure of energy for the lack of enthusiasm he feels for shutting out his thoughts. It’s a novelty, still, to _feel,_ to allow emotion to enter him and wash through him, unhindered by the centering techniques he learnt when he was young and heartbroken and rejecting the bionics keeping him alive, wanting almost badly enough to die from his injuries to do so, guided and soothed and saved by Palpatine’s voice, by the power he wielded with ease and dark, sour delight. There’s something fascinating about feeling a myriad of emotions again, something Anakin has been slow to learn in the months he’s served at his son’s side, accepting as he has that his place will _always_ be to serve, to follow and obey and bow to a power greater than his own. And Luke has, in turn, opened up to him in those months, has let Anakin into the brilliant mess of his mind to see his memories and thoughts and feelings, his acceptance of his own flaws and mistakes strangely channeled into strength, into wisdom Anakin finds surprising in one so young, so vulnerable. So at-odds with the passion and joy Luke displays, jumping into new situations and tangled difficulties and struggles that frankly terrify Anakin, mostly on Luke’s behalf.

He’s a strange, powerful man, Luke Skywalker. A walking contradiction, scarred and damaged and overflowing all the same with love and hope and _goodness,_ the Force balanced within him like a man crossing a thread stretched thin across the expanse of Beggars’ Canyon. A tense, constant struggle that Luke seems to take in stride, as if for him it is no struggle at all.

Anakin flexes the fingers of his right hand, a pointless motion, habit left over from the organic body-knowledge of a younger man now long dead, and memory asserts itself of Palpatine complaining about it, reminding Anakin of the role he was to play in the fast-forming Empire: the cold, unfeeling harbinger of pain and death and violence, a being more machine than man, more powerful than vulnerable. Not the sort of figure to be flexing his hand as if pained by arthritis or bored with the politics passing between men smarter and more cunning than himself. Anakin does it again, curiously engaging the feeling of rebellion that passes through him at the thought of intentionally doing something that would displease his former master. There’s something soothing about the gesture, beyond the sense of disobedience. It’s the combination of motion and sound and memory, he decides, the creak of the thick tan leather gloves his son purchased for him, the muted sensations of them over the bionic hand Luke’s smuggler’s contact restored for him. The memory of his son standing at his side as the doctor worked, Luke flexing his own bionic hand and apologizing softly for the injury he inflicted on his father during their confrontation at Palpatine’s feet, no irony in the statement, only honest regret, and when Anakin laughed, the sound stale and strange even to his ears, the look his son gave him in answer brought to his chest the first blossom of warmth he’d felt in years.

_My son, where are you,_ he thinks, projecting as hard as he can, his concern for his son’s well-being far outweighing the paranoia that another Jedi might be secreted away somewhere in the heat and sands of Tatooine, listening.

There’s no answer, no flicker of acknowledgement. No flare of pain or fear or anger. _Nothing._ Just the hum of activity any half-trained Force-user can always sense, the swirl of lifeforms going about their lives, thoughts and feelings and motivations muted against Anakin’s senses like the heat of the suns rising steadily beyond the thick shell of the ship, marking the minutes between the present and the hour he’d expected Luke to arrive, gathering them like scars across his concentration.

He’s almost desperate enough to reach out for Leia through the Force when he hears the buzz of a ‘speeder approaching, Luke’s presence so desperately welcome that he greets it with suspicion, resting his hand on the hilt of his lightsaber as fear and distrust form for him a sharp, clear image of how his feelings for his son could be easily used against him, a trap set to spring the moment he opens the door. He senses no others nearby, though, no tension or fear or unusual control in Luke’s thoughts as he keys in his code and enters the ship, so Anakin moves his hand away from his weapon and pours his son a cup of cool water, gathering control as best he can and losing most of it immediately upon the sight of Luke coming down the corridor, dusty and flushed from his journey but otherwise perfectly normal, achingly fine.

And perfectly unconcerned, thanking Anakin for the water and downing it in a few gulps, offering no explanation for his delay, only mild abashment in his tone as he apologizes for being late. He pulls up his mental shields when Anakin lets curiosity get the better of him and tries to see what Luke isn’t telling him, and it’s more than just Luke’s usual reflex, the knee-jerk response most Jedi have to the invasion of the mind. He pulls his shields up with determined intent and keeps them there with conscious effort, as stubborn as a child refusing to obey when his father persists, pressing at his mind. More concerned with keeping hidden whatever he’s concealing than with the subtlety of the act, his strength placed on unusual display as he resists his father’s mental intrusion.

“What are you hiding, my son?” Anakin demands to know when his efforts prove fruitless.

Luke sighs. “Nothing, Father,” he says, but his tone is guarded, as careful and carefully crafted as the barriers he’s raised against Anakin’s mental probing, and where Anakin can see none of his thoughts, he’s served at Luke’s side long enough to recognize the signs that his son is keeping secrets in an effort to protect him from something, trying to keep him ignorant of developments that he thinks will cause his father pain or grief or worry. No different from the affect he adopted the evening he came to see Anakin after telling Leia about him, the memory of her fury in the face of his confessions about their previously nameless Jedi supporter one he did not share with his father for weeks after, and with good reason, his sister’s hatred of the man who killed her adopted family and stood by in silence as the Empire destroyed her homeworld as deep and passionate as any hatred Anakin ever sensed from Palpatine, darker and more visceral than any hatred he’s ever felt, himself.

His mind parcels and catalogues the possible causes for his son to display such caution around him once again: A message from the Republic, revoking the promises made less than a day earlier, promises of support and protection for which his son has worked _so_ hard, despite his natural disinclination towards diplomacy, negotiation, and patience. The devastating consequences of the Republic representatives who sat before Anakin and considered him half a day prior discovering somehow his true identity, his relationship to Luke, free to investigate and put the pieces together once they were far enough away to escape Luke’s dampering influence on their curiosity. The very real threats of violence against the whole of his son’s beloved homeworld should it come to light that Tatooine has harbored, albeit unknowingly, the monster that once was Darth Vader, damning Luke and his friends and the innumerable lifeforms inhabiting the planet simply because they have allowed Anakin to live among them and serve them, to serve Luke’s noble, difficult cause. His thoughts blur and swirl, what-ifs wrapped in cause-and-effect, and fear rises in him like the rush of hyperspace, thick in his throat, the machines keeping him alive warming against his skin as they respond to the chemical reactions in his organic tissues, reading and measuring, ready to respond should his reactions border on dangerous to his continued life and well-being.

Luke distracts him, turning to set his water-mug aside, the echo of empty metal touching the duraplast surface of the table quiet but intentional, clearly meant to capture Anakin’s attention. “You’re overthinking things, Father,” he says, and Anakin can _feel_ Luke’s presence in his mind, seeing what he sees, the calm in his voice soothing, a comfort as ridiculous to Anakin as it is welcome. “I slept in, is all. I’m sorry. I should have let you know I would be delayed.”

His words are guarded, cool and clipped as they’ve not been for some time, since he came to Anakin a Rebel soldier still, armed with nothing but his lightsaber, ready to fight, ready to die at Anakin’s hands or take Anakin’s life with his own. Anakin gives his son’s mind one more push, harder than he feels he should, maybe, judging from the shiver of revulsion he can feel pass through Luke in response, but Luke does not relent, his shields as firm as before.

“You are certain?” Anakin says, a pointless question that earns a sigh in response, Luke considering him for a moment before answering, his eyes fluttering closed and mental shields falling away, leaving him bare and vulnerable.

“I am,” he says.

Powerful even in his most unguarded state, his mind fully open to Anakin, moreso than it has _ever_ been, even when he stood before Anakin, half-trained with his control fractured by fear and distraction, his love for his friends at odds with his hatred of Darth Vader and the Emperor and the Empire, his desire to do whatever he could to protect those he loved clashing in contrast with his desire to live, to survive, animal instincts warring against conscious martyrdom, a boy struggling against himself to become a man. He is oddly intimidating, like this, so open that Anakin fears reaching out for what Luke has laid bare for him to see, the prospect of unwittingly damaging his son weighing on him like a physical presence. He feels rejection underlining Luke’s thoughts, Luke’s controlled effort to keep his mind open overpowering his very human desire to conceal what his father will see there. He feels the heat of the sunburn Luke was worrying on his organic wrist while he drank his water, the muted burn of it irritated by the brush of his sleeve, waking and re-waking nerve-endings raw from the power of the twin suns. He feels his son’s heartbeat, steady and even, its rhythm maintained in an artificial calm, mirrored in Luke’s breathing. He feels the memory of Master Yoda, the old Jedi’s voice croaking out instruction and judgment, the calming techniques Luke employs now taught to him years earlier over the burn of scraped skin and pulled muscles, over hunger and fear and the throbbing ache of healing bruises and snake-bites, the suffocating weariness of breathing the wet air of Dagobah, the struggle to concentrate and learn and prove a worth greater than Yoda or Luke himself could possibly comprehend.

Luke pushes, his mind guiding his father’s away from the memories of Dagobah to a memory more recent and clearer for it, memory of dusty air and the grey light of early morning, of rumpled linens scented with the familiar herbs of Tatooine, of warm skin and the taste of clean sweat. Slow kisses comfortable in their familiarity, a lover warm and soft under his hands, and a lover behind him as well, curved around his body. Two lovers, then, both of them distracting him from his training and meditations with their touches and kisses, his desire for them mixed with his diminishing sense of duty, his lingering sense of revulsion at the thought of his father knowing that he’s --

Oh.

Anakin pulls away from the memory as quickly as he can once he realizes what he’s seeing, but the power and training of a Jedi’s mind allows for the rapid collection and retention of information, so he sees all of it nonetheless, Leia nude and stretched out under his son, reaching down to run her hands through his hair as he kisses her belly, her thighs, then lower, opening her with his hands and pleasuring her with his mouth. The smuggler behind him, _in_ him, fingers rough with callouses and cock thick and wet with arousal, his arms strong and tacky with sweat as he pulls Luke flush against his chest, holding him close as he fucks. Leia’s hands, small and delicate and pale against Luke’s, their joined touch bringing him to an orgasm so powerful that Anakin can _feel_ the memory it reverberating in his own body, his rejection of the sensation mirrored in his son’s, Luke’s discomfort with the whole thing as deep as the sands beneath Anakin’s ship.

“Your sister,” Anakin hears himself say, “and that _smuggler?”_

Luke’s expression doesn’t change, his affect as calm as if his father were asking him about the specifications of a starship, not about his choice of sexual partners. “Yes,” he says.

_“Both_ of them?” Anakin says, the surprise dulling his usual ability to filter, lingering shock from his conversation the day prior with his son about Luke’s relationship with his sister combining with the unexpected revelation that Luke feels more than just friendship and brotherhood for the swaggering bastard smuggler with more secrets and violence and self-doubt and shame lining his thoughts than most hardened criminals Anakin has known. That Luke returns the potent mix of lust and affection and possessiveness Anakin sensed in the smuggler’s mind while he interrogated the man on Cloud City is a surprise, just as it is a surprise that he reciprocates the warm pride and almost tender attachment Anakin has sensed whenever the smuggler’s around, for all that the signs have been there, Solo’s tendency to be in physical contact with Luke at odds with Luke’s natural inclination to keep distance between himself and others. Anakin had assumed his son was simply tolerating the smuggler’s clinginess, unaware of the man’s emotional attachment, but --

“Father,” Luke says, drawing Anakin from his musings, “you _tortured_ them. Both of them.”

A true statement pointless to refute, though both of them survived with no permanent physical or mental damage, a fortune not enjoyed by many others who received the same treatment at the hands of Darth Vader. “Yes,” Anakin says slowly, bemused, reaching once again for his son’s mind, hoping to find some hint of the connection Luke has drawn between his choice of lovers and the orders Anakin followed to draw information from individuals standing in opposition of the Emperor’s goals. He finds nothing beyond the burning discomfort of embarrassment and Luke’s characteristically stalwart determination, a flurry of other thoughts kicking like dust-devils in the Wastes filling his son’s mind with noise and distraction. “I do not see the connection,” he confesses, pulling away.

“I am _not_ having this conversation,” Luke says, his tone sharp with temper; a first in his father’s presence, his weary honesty oddly refreshing, a kindness that makes Anakin’s chest ache as it did hours earlier, but instead of worry, he aches now with affection and gratitude, with pleasure at his son’s willingness to put his emotions on display so openly around him.

“My son,” Anakin says, the words awkward in his mouth, cluttered with his desire to comfort the young man standing before him, “I do not --”

“Father, _please.”_

“I do not mind,” Anakin tells him, his electrolarynx increasing the volume of his voice enough to get Luke’s attention. “It is, as you have said, invasive. I apologize. I will not ask again.” A generosity he was not shown when he was scant years younger than Luke’s age and deeply in love with a partner he’d been told was forbidden to him, the value of the training Luke has neglected that morning in favor of shared intimacy with his lovers forced onto Anakin, placed above the value of the love he once felt, as hot and consuming as the sands surrounding his ship. He keeps that to himself, certain that a time will come when he can share such reflections with his son, a time when Luke will be ready to hear them, to appreciate them.

Now is not that time. Luke dips his chin in a nod, his gaze still fixed on the mask covering his father’s face, and says _thank you,_ embarrassment coming off of him still like the heat of the day that clings to the leather and linen of his garments when he arrives each morning. He’s not fully pulled his shields back up when Anakin reaches for him, a sign of trust and acceptance Anakin has enjoyed over the weeks Luke has been allowing it to happen. He’s struggling for control, his thoughts stubbornly fractured even as he tries to center himself, to focus. Struggling to suppress the awkwardness and embarrassment of the morning with the lingering guilt of neglecting his exercises, the weight of the work left to do on Tatooine at odds with the escapism of his memories from the morning, one memory in particular catching and holding his attention, memory of the kiss Luke gave the smuggler on his way out that morning, Solo’s hand groping artlessly at Luke’s backside when Luke pulled away to leave, the smile that tugged across his mouth at the gesture then threatening to make him smile again now, for all that he’s doing a decent job of keeping his expression blank and impassive. He’s enjoying the memory, Anakin realizes, allowing it to linger in his thoughts. Very likely doesn’t realize that his father can see it too, and feel it, the rush of joy and desire in Luke’s chest, the pleasure of the temptation to drag the smuggler back to bed instead of seeing to his responsibilities. The pride in being wanted by a man he, for whatever reason, respects and admires and maybe even loves.

“I would be honored to share some of my knowledge of selective shielding, if you are interested,” Anakin tells him as the silence between them starts to stretch, the cool wisps of suspicion licking at the edges of Luke’s thoughts, warmed by the embarrassment barely waiting in the corners of his mind to reassert itself as he realizes he’s not been as subtle in his thoughts as he’d perhaps thought he was. “It seems a skill you might like to have.”

Embarrassment wins immediately at his words, Luke’s entire face going an impressive shade of red, unhindered as ever by his fair coloring, so much like his mother it makes Anakin’s chest ache for the third time that morning, his mind stirring with memories he’s long locked away, memories he guards with vicious possessiveness. A flash of thought from Luke’s mind serves as a welcome distraction for him, an image presenting itself, as bright and vibrant and vivid as if he were seeing it with his own eyes: Luke striding proudly from the ship, out into the shimmering heat of late morning, and burying himself in the sand, his body curled in the cool bedrock hidden deep from the heat of the twin suns, embarrassment wafting like smoke around the heat shimmers far above his body, swept away in the breeze. A coping mechanism Anakin immediately recognizes as one Master Yoda taught to Master Jin, who taught it to Obi Wan, who taught it to Anakin longer than his son’s lifetime ago. Recognizing emotions, acknowledging them; imagining them as physical manifestations, allowing them to pass.

“Thank you, Father,” Luke says, and the vision is gone, replaced with the blush receding from Luke’s face, his bright blue eyes not quite meeting Anakin’s gaze, drawn down by lingering embarrassment, the awkward youth at odds with the powerful Jedi, all wrapped up in one sweet, complicated man. “I would appreciate that, very much.”

Anakin nods and sets about distracting his son with talk of their next strategic steps, plans now to be put into action to maintain the tentative peace and stability they’ve installed in place of the culture of slavery so deeply embedded across the planet. Luke takes to it eagerly, his mind calming and focusing well enough as he joins his father at the table at the center of the room, reviewing the notes Anakin made after the envoy’s departure the day before.

Someday, Anakin muses, he will share with his son the story of how much he loved the boy’s mother, of the sacrifices he and she both made because of that love. Someday, he will share with his son the lessons he learnt from Palpatine, the power he learnt to draw upon and wield, born in his own case from hatred and anger and grief but in his son’s hands could be gathered from passion and love and possessiveness, his desire to save the worlds scattered across the galaxy as deep and resonating as his desire to protect his two lovers, fragile humans who have known him and loved him and remained at his side through the horrors Anakin has himself visited upon him.

But not today. Anakin tucks away for later consideration the flicker of anticipation he feels at his thoughts of the future, the joy of it foreign to him, as strange as the powerful man who sits at his side.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here, have a toss-off story rewritten from Anakin’s point-of-view. This was supposed to be porn. It’s not. I don’t even know what’s going on anymore.

For those of you at home keeping score, my pet fan theory is that Anakin, as disposed to deep, vibrant passions as I remember him being in the prequels, would jump with both feet into being an overprotective father prone to worrying about his son, had he survived his fight with Palpatine in Ep VI. I don’t think he’d have the first _clue_ how to deal with a daughter, especially not one he abused as badly as he did Leia. She’d confuse and terrify him in equal parts, and it would 100% _be his own damn fault._

On a related note, I’ve finally decided to re-watch the prequels, and for the record, I had to bribe my long-suffering partner with the promise of special meals and lots of beer to get him to agree to watch them with me. If anyone’s interested in black bean burgers and sweet potato fries with Ep II and chickpea tacos with Oculto beer with Ep III, haul it on down to my house next Saturday. It’s gonna be a party!

This story was written in full in second-person-PoV and then my brain chimed in with “it’d fit better in the rest of the series if it were in third-person-PoV, wouldn’t it?” so I got to go through and change the PoV and let me _tell_ you, that sucked. So much so that I had to have a few tropical screwdrivers (which are regular screwdrivers, just made with coconut vodka instead of regular vodka because regular vodka tastes like nail polish remover smells, ew-gross) and get on my treadmill for some angry power-walking just to get over myself. Which I didn’t really manage to do before my legs gave out, oh well.

Han’s and Leia’s PoVs coming up as soon as I take a shower in something other than my own sweat, true story.


End file.
